by Felicity Marks

A humming bird treads an invisible thread

researching the leafless ground below;

a dissertation on silence.


You send balloons up,

haemoglobin bubbles in the sky

dispersing sudden thoughts like Apollo’s limbs –


maybe you do not want to be alone now,

(after that first fatal wish)

wait for the card to be returned; Wish you were here.


The weather is nuclear:

everything yellow like pickled fruit

or temporal grey; the complexion cadaver’s wear


You know that if you died, you would leave no ripple,

a skimming stone succumbing to gravity’s symmetry.


Days dissolve into weeks, months,

old conversations make your teeth chatter to themselves

your stomach the only reply for a hundred miles.